


Checkmate

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 19:49:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6207832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But there’s only so much pining and wondering he can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Checkmate

Sometimes, Akashi is quite sure of Midorima’s affections toward him. Namely, that they are as not-strictly-platonic as his own toward Midorima, that when Midorima catches his eye when they’re bent over the shogi board at lunch break, the smell of sweat from their hands on the rusting shogi tiles permeating the air, that his gaze lingers a little bit too long and his cheeks are coloring even in the dim light. And sometimes he is absolutely certain that when Midorima hands him a wrench through the steam that his gloved hand lingers and that’s why he pulls it back as if it’s been burned when they both know that their gloves are made to withstand the inside of a volcano if need be.

But perhaps that’s just his own wishful thinking. And though Akashi knows he’s usually good at distinguishing that from the real thing (the respect his father doesn’t have for him, the deference that people who know who he is show even though they think they’re trying to treat him like a normal person) it’s awfully hard to tell in this case. It’s not as if he has issues with self-esteem, with deeming himself likable enough. It’s not the concept; it’s the action. It’s a bit like shogi, the strategy versus the outcome. Real life throws in counter-strategies, an element of surprise.

Real life clouds his judgement, as it were. Sometimes he finds it hard to concentrate on securing the vents, adjusting the bolts, when Midorima’s working on the other side, his soot-stained brow furrowed, his eyes obscured behind the goggles but his mouth pressed together and still somehow so expressive as he tightens and loosens the bolts accordingly. He is not quite as efficient as Akashi, but Akashi loves to watch him work regardless, to watch his mind as he puzzles things out, the delay, like a computer whose wires and bulbs all light up in a glorious display.

He sets the tiles down on the board so gracefully, almost soundlessly, very poised and practiced. It’s the kind of thing that people don’t expect of someone with Midorima’s size and strength, people who are too inattentive to see how graceful he is. (He sweeps piles of iron pipes onto his back, supports them with his long arms, carries on without complaint—when he takes off his goggles to wipe his eyes his lashes are surprisingly long and delicate, the same pretty shade of green as his hair.) It’s never too distracting for Akashi to lose, to fall into Midorima’s faithfully by-the-book traps (although he’s come close before, too close).

But it’s hard to tell if Midorima is distracted, too; he’s a damn good shogi player even if he’s not quite on Akashi’s level and if he were distracted he might make a few sloppier mistakes, might shift a tile and then widen his eyes behind the goggles because it’s too late and he’s realizing just now, just as he’s focusing on the board. But he doesn’t; he only realizes when Akashi’s fingers return to his own tiles, when Akashi’s eyes flicker from the board to Midorima’s face, to watch the realization as if a switch has been shifted, redirecting the train on the tracks of his mind to the knowledge that his turns are limited. (He always tries to escape these traps, and Akashi admires the effort, futile as it is. It only makes him like Midorima more.)

But there’s only so much pining and wondering he can do. There’s only so much time he can allocate, time he can leave for deliberations. He’s not a stalled machine; there’s nothing caught inside of him, a loose wire or an errant bit or a melted processor, that’s literally keeping him from making a move. Akashi is not a man who deliberates (most of the time). Midorima is; Midorima is the type who sometimes thinks too much about his problems until his mind has chopped them to pieces and rendered them unsolvable. Akashi is not. And he is quite determined not to let Midorima do that on his end, if he reciprocates. Which is, in some ways, a fairly large if—but a plausible if, a situation that Akashi may on some level be able to take advantage of, to work the way he does machines. (Midorima is not a machine, although he may wish to pretend he is on some occasions.) And so Akashi sets his strategy.

* * *

Midorima’s face had flushed when Akashi had asked if he’d wanted to meet after work, and Akashi considers that, at least, a success—it hadn’t been from the steam in the shop; it hadn’t been a trick of the low lighting. He’d chosen his “yes” carefully, let it fall from his mouth perfectly, and that, too, is promising. Still, the setup is one thing; just like in shogi (whether the tiles are rusty, dented metal or something else) he has to move in for the checkmate.

It’s the first time he’s seen Shintarou without his work clothes on, and without the jumpsuit his body stands out, the lean muscle from lifting heavy iron pronounced but not overly emphasized under his shirt, his long legs accentuated by his crisp straight leg khakis. Without his goggles (or the raccoon-like mask of soot they leave behind) his eyes take a little getting used to, brilliant green behind the frames of his glasses, shining in the light. Akashi would be very pleased if the entire evening consisted of just looking at Midorima like this, especially with the way he’s staring back, biting his lip.

“Well, then,” says Akashi, motioning toward the café.

He offers his hand; Midorima takes it. His slim fingers are cool and dry to the touch, trembling ever-so-slightly. And that’s all the invitation Akashi needs. He places his free hand on Midorima’s shoulder; Midorima swallows. Akashi stands on his tiptoes, leans up to press their lips together. Midorima’s lips, soft and smooth, push back, meeting his pressure equally, like a cap against a pipe. Checkmate.

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: akamido + steampunk + pining
> 
> i dont know that much about steampunk /shrugs


End file.
